Panic switch
by headphone frenzy
Summary: Demyx felt like his art project, broken back and a tattered smile, yethe still yearned for this someone special. Zemyx. Lame. One shot.


**P**anic **S**witch.

**H**eadpone **d**oes **n**ot **o**wn.

Imagine a mannequin. Imagine the wooden, tarnished, joints, all placed to keep it safe and secured. Just take it into your brain, your right half, not your left. Think about this without the tiniest bit of logic. Think about this purely as art. Imagine the wooden limbs falling apart at the invisible seams. Imagine that its stilted back was twisted around, snapping its imaginary spinal cord like a wringed washcloth without mercy. Imagine its left arm, lifting up at the highest point of the joint, completely straight.

No curves, no cut corners. Now imagine its left hand, coming out at an almost accurate 90 degree angle, only it's a few notches off, just because the wooden doll can't bend that way. Just because it's already dead enough to not know what a perfect right degree angle is. Then, imagine its right arm. Is it hard? Having difficulty? That's because it's entirely gone.

It snapped right off.

It's now only the shallow, wooden, perfectly smoothed out joint of its shoulder, and a wooden shell of its bicep is hollowly covering up a spring that is bent at a slight 20 degree angle. The spring is the only thing keeping the shell on and the whole arm itself is bent at an angle that was originally at a 91 degree angle, the pivot being the elbow, and it's wooden, shapeless hand resting on its backwards hip.

Now, imagine the chest, it's slightly sticking out, since it needs to protract the left arm straight into the air, all of it, all of the wooden, dullness. It's grabbing out for something. The hips are slightly sideways, making the whole pose seem awkward. The left leg is perfectly straight, all of it, all of the three joints are perfectly arranged to allow the wooden figurine to put it's foot flat and perfectly onto the figurine stand that is directly below it.

The right leg, it's shot back, almost at perfect angles, but not entirely. It's slightly bent, at a 176 degree angle, and the joints seem worn out, tarnished, from all of the constant bending and replacing positions, moving around and twisting. Its foot is bent back as far as it's willing to resist against.

My foot is bent back as far as I can resist without screaming out in absolute agony. My right leg is being shot back as far as my hip will allow itself to pivot. I'm the one with the missing arm that's being held together by a broken spring. I'm the one trying to reach out with a deformed hand.

I'm the one with a broken back who's still trying to work it.

". You're not being serious at all about this, are you?" I stared at the person calling my name, and he stared back at me with the same velocity. Neither of us really said anything important, let alone anything at all. He had converse on that were a faded black, almost grey, but my brain still registered that he had most likely bought them black and without a gapping hole in the side, showing his dull white socks.

"Oh, I am being perfectly serious." Stating back, my eyes stared him up and down, peeling off his skin witlessly, so as to make him feel as uncomfortable as I, standing near the front of the class and being called out so easily. He seemed to do this just to make me upset, since he could see by the way my usually calm stature would stiffen, if ever so slightly. He would prey off of my self-esteem.

"Then why, may I ask," He started, pausing slightly to either catch his breathe, or thoroughly analyze my picture to know exactly what parts to point out flaws in, where to point out where I made my mistake. "Is this person bending in ways they shouldn't? Their back should have broken by now if they were real." This little factor was true, they were entirely backwards, the two ends of them being visible were the face, a detail I added last, and a fully-clad behind and you could see the invisible agony on them. It was painted all through their features.

The man in who I was speaking to, he wasn't the real teacher, he was a rude, ignorant, and if anything, he was just a simple TA, a mindless teacher's assistant who was trying to get extra credit by mindlessly critiquing artwork that was far beyond his real comprehension. Purple-haired, with an emo-style of having it pulled long over his right eye, the ends of his unnatural locks pulled tight with gel – which I only knew since I once made the mistake of trying to pat his head, and was quickly found poked by the disguised spears. He wore a style that was opposite of my casual white kakis and traditional t-shirts that wear usually found in random violent shades of blue and lighter – which was a bit outdated for this year, but I found to be comfortable and workable - his normal outfit consisted of mainly some dark shade of skinny jeans, converse that fell apart almost a year ago that he still resurrected day after day with cheap duct tape, and a shirt of any sort that was covered by the same slim jacket with the word 'oblivion' on his chest, right upper half, as though it were a logo, but really, it was just the designer line it came from.

"Their back is broken. It's to symbolize…" I though for a moment, trying to think of a good excuse to be painting a mannequin who's back is being snapped into more sectors then a seven year old can count to, who's body speaks in an agony far worse then can be explained by a man of every language, who's entire self cannot be thought of as a form of art other then to someone with a twisted mind. "Today's society." I finally thought of, quickly coming to another hasty burst of inspiration of what the meaning of the sick painting really was. "It's about how people try to get somewhere, and while they try and try, it does nothing, and they end up a wasted person, like this here 'no face'."

Using a name for a faceless, exasperated, most-likely-zombie would have been an insult of those who were still alive. Though, I didn't care, I didn't care one bit. And while I'm trying to go through today with a grin on my face, It's difficult to not pull back.

"Do you have anything else to say?"

"Yeah, what time do you get off work?"


End file.
